


Model Behavior

by sarapunzel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:22:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarapunzel/pseuds/sarapunzel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is an esteemed photographer working for Gabriel Milton, the sassiest, most flamboyant bigwig in the industry. Sam is a lowly intern whose every day is another series of trials set by Mr. Milton himself. Castiel is a soft-spoken, beautiful young model from an obscure modeling company, trailed by the world's most ill-paired entourage. When Dean steps behind the camera to shoot the pretty new model, he finds himself intensely drawn to the talent. But there's something sinister shadowing Castiel's every move, and Dean's determined to find out what, or who, it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Damn, he’s really riding me hard today,” Sam mutters under his breath. Dean fixes him with a glare of revulsion before returning his focus to the lens in his lap.

“Poor choice of words, Sammy,” he grumbles back, meticulously cleaning the lens and rechecking it for smudges or impurities. Sam rolls his eyes and leans back in his swivel chair behind the front desk. He sighs dramatically at the stack of portfolios in front of him, scattered with paper clips and post-it notes, most of which are covered in barely-legible, snarky comments left by Sam’s boss, Gabriel Milton. Sam pulls one of them off, squints to read it, and promptly crumples it up and tosses it into the wastebasket.

“Can you believe this guy?” Sam hisses. When Dean doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s said anything, Sam frowns and pelts his brother with a slew of mangled paper clips. Dean grunts in surprise and immediately shields the camera lens with his arms as though it’s a precious infant.

“What? What?” he retorts. “Jesus.”

“Milton! Passive-aggressive asshole! These notes are the single most—”

“Yes?” interrupts Mr. Passive-Aggressive himself. He’s leaning in the doorway, dressed like an amateur Elton John impersonator, and sporting an exceptionally sassy raised eyebrow. Sam scrambles to push the portfolios into a neater stack, stammering incoherently. Dean’s forehead burns with secondhand embarrassment. It’s funny how his towering, hulking yeti of a brother is so intimidated by a five-foot-nine dandy carrying a sugar-free RedBull and a patent-leather satchel he’s quick to inform you was custom-designed by Donatella Versace herself to hold Milton’s dogs. (They are, predictably, a teacup poodle named Donatella and a Jack Russel named Versace.)

“Single most what, Missssster Winchester?” Milton folds his arms across his chartreuse velvet chest and the poodle pokes her head out of the bag, presumably to join her master in staring a hole into Sam’s head.

“Helpful. Constructive,” Sam lies, his eyes so wide and round it’s a wonder they don’t pop out of his huge-ass skull. Milton draws a long, slow inhale like he’s trying to suck the life out of Sam from five feet away, and then strides over to the desk and proceeds to silently rifle through the candy dish. Dean peers over out of the corner of his eye and has to stifle a laugh at the way Sam is smiling stiffly, his hands gripping the sides of his chair like he could be blown halfway across the country any second just by one foul look from Milton. It isn’t entirely unfounded, either, as Milton could easily send Sam crawling back to his old job in Detroit, tail between his legs and nothing but six months of unpaid internship to show for it.

_So much power in those flawlessly-manicured fingers_ , Dean thinks.

Milton picks out a lollipop and unwraps it with a painstaking slowness that’s only made a hundred times creepier by the fact that he’s staring intently at Sam while he does it. He then pops the sucker into his mouth, pushes it into his cheek in an unmistakably obscene manner, smiles around the little white stick, and says coyly, “That’s what I like to hear.”

When he slinks back out of the room, Dean nearly falls off the sofa laughing.

 

Later, when another terrified intern hands Dean a clipboard with his shooting schedule for the day, he isn’t laughing anymore. He scans the list of agencies and models, all of whom he’s worked with before, until his eyes land on an unfamiliar item: Michael’s Model Management. He follows the ellipses to the model’s name: Castiel Novak. For a moment, Dean considers that maybe the intern’s given him the wrong clipboard. Dean isn’t the type to brag (except on occasion or when he’s drunk), but he’s one of the top photographers in the business, and he’s certainly the best in this particular company. He generally only works with established models from prestigious agencies—the new models are assigned to relatively new photographers, because Dean is usually so overbooked with returning clients that he doesn’t have the time or energy to commit to new gigs. It’s a system he’s gotten very comfortable with, and seeing this newcomer “Castiel Novak” on his schedule feels like a slap in the face. He makes a mental note to confront Milton about this as soon as he’s finished his first shoot of the day.

A few hours later, after Dean has kissed Jessica Moore, of California Models, goodbye, he heads up four floors to Milton’s office. When he arrives, he finds Milton dressing his dogs in little sailor outfits, cooing to them as he fastens navy-blue caps to their heads. Dean is struck once again at how bizarre it feels to be the subordinate to this guy.

“So, Dean-o, what’s the scoop?” Milton asks, reclining in his chair and tucking his hands behind his head. Donatella leaps into his lap, which is quite a feat considering that she’s got to be at least somewhat hindered by the tiny bloomers she’s wearing.

Dean produces the schedule sheet and points to where he’s highlighted Castiel’s name. “Who is this guy?”

Milton takes one look and starts nodding thoughtfully, one finger on his chin. “Oh! Yes. Castiel Novak. Very talented new guy on the scene. Absolute dreamboat and a joy to work with, or so I’m told.”

“New guy?” Dean repeats incredulously. “Has there been some kind of mistake? I don’t normally shoot fresh faces.”

Milton leans forward, elbows on the glossy desk. “And I don’t normally make mistakes.”

Dean fumbles for a comeback to this. “It’s just kind of a surprise, I guess.”

Milton shrugs, then throws his hands up in mock celebration. “Surprise!” he exclaims sarcastically. “Now get back downstairs. You know Luci is a bitch if you make him wait.”

So Dean drags his sorry ass back down to the third floor, where he mopes through his shoot with Lucifer DeVille, then he spaces out and almost drops a frightfully expensive lens during his set with Raphael Angelo, before he tensely awaits the arrival of Castiel Novak.

The model shows up twenty minutes late, with the smallest entourage Dean’s ever seen in his seven years on the job. Before Novak even enters the room, a small, mousy kind of guy and an excitable young blonde woman come hurrying through the doors. They introduce themselves as Chuck and Becky, and then they apologize profusely for their tardiness.

“Our taxi got a flat!” Becky cries.

“And then we got a little lost,” Chuck adds somberly. Becky nods enthusiastically and takes Dean’s hand; he half-expects her to start kissing it like he’s royalty, judging from the sheer reverence and awe in her eyes. Dean quickly assures them it’s alright, and then he sees him: Castiel.

The model slumps into the room, ocean-blue eyes darting around nervously. He’s not particularly tall or buff, but in a plain black T-shirt and jeans, Dean can tell the guy is slim and well-built. Castiel has tousled, Elvis Presley-black hair, and Dean isn’t too ashamed to admit to himself that he finds the new guy’s pouting lips sufficiently distracting. Becky rushes to Castiel’s side, takes his arm aggressively, and pulls him over to meet Dean. The model’s cheeks flush a pretty pink, which only serves to intensify the blueness of his eyes.

_Oh, holy hell_.

Dean extends his hand, and Castiel stares at it for a second or two before shaking it, refusing to meet Dean’s gaze. Even for a newcomer, he seems awfully shy, but his silence is offset entirely by Becky’s near-constant stream of commentary, as she primps and arranges Castiel into his “outfit”. (It’s really just a pair of boxers and knee-socks. It’s _that_ sort of photo shoot.)

Finally, Chuck shoves Castiel in front of the backdrop and hands him a football. The model holds it at arm’s length, like it’s the most confusing prop he’s ever laid eyes on. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks. Chuck shrugs and lights up a cigarette.

“Balance it on your head. Put it between your thighs. I don’t know, man, I’m not the one getting paid to hold a football in front of a camera,” Chuck replies flatly. Becky punches him in the arm and he shuffles away.

“Don’t listen to him, Mr. Novak! Just stand there and look pretty. Do you want a bottle of water? Some fruit gummies?” she pipes up eagerly. Castiel shakes his head, still looking utterly confounded by the presence of the football.

“I just don’t understand the premise of this scene,” Castiel says. “In what situation would I find myself holding a football in my underwear?”

Dean takes a break from focusing his camera to snort at this observation. Castiel has a point. But Dean’s seen much stranger, more illogical props than this, and he hopes the model can make it work so he can get this over with. So he moves behind the camera and peers through. Castiel’s shoulders immediately straighten, and his face falls into a sort of smoldering gaze that’s so ridiculously attractive that Dean actually has to remind himself to take the photos instead of simply watching him. For all his nervous quirks and his lack of experience, Castiel seems to be a natural talent. Dean captures one fantastic shot after another, and he’s even starting to enjoy himself. He remembers why he got into this fucked-up dog-and-pony show of a career in the first place: it’s for the thrill of a perfect photograph, the magic of freezing a beautiful moment in time.

And there are many, many beautiful moments to be had with this one.

By the end of the shoot, Castiel is starting to sweat a little under the bright set lights, and Becky hurries forward to dab at the model’s forehead and chest with a towel. “You were fantastic!” she gushes, helping Castiel back into his street clothes. Dean sits in his chair and reviews the photos—this has been an immensely successful gig. He’s so entranced by the stills that he jumps when he feels Chuck breathing over his shoulder.

“Good stuff,” Chuck says simply. Dean wonders what the hell this guy’s job is, but he doesn’t ask. It’s not uncommon for a model to flit around town with a completely useless lackey. Usually there’s some sort of sentimental value there, even though Chuck seems pretty detached from the whole thing, really.

“Last shoot of the day, huh?” Becky says, desperate to strike up conversation. Dean nods.

“Yep. Last one. Always nice to end the day on a good note.”

Her face lights up and she lets out a high-pitched giggle. “It’s _awesome_!”

Castiel sidles over reluctantly, and Becky throws her arms around him. The look of shock and confusion on the model’s face forces a laugh from Dean’s throat. Chuck hovers by the door, clearly anxious to leave.

“Well, it was a pleasure working with you,” Dean says, and finally Castiel meets his eyes.

It’s like an electric current through Dean’s chest, straight down to his gut and beyond.

Castiel holds out his hand and Dean takes it a little too quickly. When the model chimes, “The pleasure was mine, as well,” Dean can swear he feels the hum of Castiel’s voice all the way to his dick. He wills his body not to react. _Not now, please God_ , he thinks desperately. _Wait until I’m home in the shower, then you can have all the boners you want_.

“See you tomorrow!” Becky chirps, breaking Dean from his internal dialogue. He realizes he’s still clutching Castiel’s hand and hurriedly releases him with a nervous cough.

“Tomorrow?” Dean verifies, sure he’s heard wrong. Becky grins.

“Yes, sir! We’re booked with you for the whole week, actually!”

“Oh,” Dean says.

Castiel’s eyes are fixated on the floor as Becky continues. “It’s weird, I know. But Mr. Novak’s just starting out and we’re kinda hitting it close to our deadline for a portfolio to send off, and we heard you’re the best of the best! Soooo, here we are!”

“And here we’ll be tomorrow,” Chuck calls from the doorway. “So can we please leave? I’d like to get home before _Conan_ and I live all the way out in the sticks.”

“I’m TiVo’ing it!” Becky says cheerfully, but she picks up her bag of makeup and whatever other random odds and ends male models require these days, and heads for the door. Castiel turns to follow her, then immediately swivels back around to flash a sudden, painfully charming smile.

“Thank you,” he says, and that rosy tinge reassumes his face. Dean feels like his own head might actually detach from his body and float off into the sunset. It’s dizzying and unsettling to suffer such a strong reaction to a simple smile, especially after seven years of photographing ethereally-beautiful people in various levels of undress. One would think he’d be impervious by now.

Dean replies, “You, too,” and then realizes how strange it sounds. But if Castiel thinks it weird, he doesn’t give any indication. He simply gives one curt nod and trails after Becky, who is talking animatedly at an obviously-disinterested Chuck.

Dean watches the three of them leave, then sinks into his chair and groans.

He really, _really_ cannot afford to foster a crush right now, and especially not on a client he’ll be spending every day with for the rest of the week. The best he can hope for is that Castiel will be wearing considerably more clothing in the shoots to come, for the sake of his sanity and his dwindling capacity for sexual frustration.

 

Unluckily for Dean, it appears that whoever’s in charge of Castiel’s portfolio is either the world’s biggest pervert or Calvin Klein himself, because the next day the model’s entire ensemble consists of the same pair of silky boxers in various colors and patterns and, well, not much else. Becky is, once again, the human equivalent of a triple espresso, chattering away at top-speed without so much as a second’s lull between topics, happily unconcerned as to whether or not anyone is actually listening. Chuck loiters in the far corner, chatting up the assistants and being generally unhelpful. Dean spends the first fifteen minutes of the appointment awkwardly avoiding eye contact with anyone, and especially Castiel. He busies himself with meaningless little tasks around the set, fixing and re-fixing props. When Castiel appears at his elbow and clears his throat emphatically, Dean resists the urge to bolt out of the room.

_You’re a damn professional_ , Dean reminds himself inwardly. _Act like one_.

But as he raises his gaze, he has to bite his lip in restraint. The model has changed into a pair of sky-blue boxers, with suspenders stretched over his shoulders. Dean can’t help but survey Castiel’s body appreciatively—standing this close, Dean can make out every ripple and contour of the model’s flat stomach, lean arms, and, Lord have mercy, the diagonal cut of his hips and the unmistakable outline of his package.

_Don’t stare at his junk. Don’t stare at his junk. Don’t stare at his junk_.

“Which props do you think I should utilize?” Castiel is asking, and Dean shakes himself mentally. He glances around; there’s a bowl of fruit, a pillow, a presumably-empty black briefcase, a rubber duck, a hula hoop, and a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles. Dean winces. He’ll have to arrange a conference with the props department.

He turns back to Castiel and promptly loses his train of thought. (He can only assume that it’s been lost in the photoshopped-Caribbean-post-card-blue of Castiel’s eyes.) His own eyes flit involuntarily downward to the model’s crotch again.

_Don’t stare at his junk_.

“Oh, just use whatever tickles your fancy!” Dean says, his voice hitting a much higher pitch than he intends. “It’s all your junk!” _Silky smooth, and stop—staring—at—his—junk_.

Castiel’s dark brows furrow a little at this. Dean prays for a giant anvil to fall on him and put him out of his misery, Looney Tunes-style. The model nods and bends over to pick up the spectacles. Dean rolls his eyes to the ceiling to avoid staring at Castiel’s ass, but then Castiel puts on the glasses and Dean has to physically remove himself from the situation before he has a chance to put his foot in his mouth again—or possibly before he drops to his knees and licks every inch of Castiel’s thighs. The model blinks and wiggles his nose as though the glasses are a brand new, confusing experience, and the gesture is so outrageously endearing that Dean actually lets out a muted whimper as he backs away to hide his pathetic, pining ass behind the camera lens.

For someone who talks like the anal-retentive offspring of a robot and a door-to-door proselytizing Mormon, Castiel certainly doesn’t seem to have any qualms about being eighty-percent nude in front of a camera. The model twists and contorts into the most obscene poses, his arms folding now and then around the back of a chair, circling his own waist, behind his head—his face shapes itself into pouts and smirks and winks, biting his lip, quirking an eyebrow, shutting his eyes and rolling his head back with his mouth just barely open. It’s more than enough to provide easily a month’s worth of wank-fodder, and Dean finds himself struggling to focus on the shots when every molecule in his body urges him to grab a handful of Castiel’s perfect ass, bend him over, and fuck him blind.

At the end, Dean is sweating even harder than Castiel, and he hopes it isn’t as obvious as it feels. The model slips back into his shockingly plain clothes and then stalks over to Dean, a faint smile curving his lips. He looks sheepish, demure, in a way that Dean is unaccustomed to seeing; it’s a sharp contrast to the models that normally waltz into the studio like divas and demand everyone’s attention. Castiel passes a pale, spidery hand back through his dark hair, then says softly, “I hope I gave you some decent shots.”

Dean wants to take the guy’s shoulders and shake him; he wants to press Castiel into the wall and tell him he’s beautiful, he’s flawless, and that every frame Dean’s captured is as stunning as the next. But instead, he simply nods and shuffles his feet casually, granting Castiel a grin that he couldn’t have held back if he tried.

“Are you kidding? It’s gonna be damn near impossible to cut any of ‘em. You were perfect, Mr. Novak,” Dean tells him sincerely. Castiel’s face takes on a heavenly sort of rosy glow, his face splitting into a brilliant smile and Dean feels his stomach twists into knots.

“Please,” the model says, “You’ve seen me almost naked. I think we’re past formalities at this point. You can call me Cas.”

Dean’s throat goes dry and when he opens his mouth to speak some as-of-yet-undetermined response, all that stumbles out is an aborted little cough. The model takes a step back and looks vaguely concerned for a moment before giving one last shy wave of his hand, sticking his fists into his pockets and shrugging away to follow Becky out of the room. By the time Dean’s stopped choking on his own feelings, Cas is long gone, leaving Dean alone with his camera and his quickly-tightening jeans.

 

 

“So, how’s it going with your newbie?” Sam asks, beaming at Dean across the usual pile of folders and headshots. Dean leans forward and jerks his head toward the office down the hall.

“I don’t know, Sammy. How’s it going with Gay Hitler?”

Sam glares venomously and shushes Dean, his eyes darting to the office door as though it’s a fire-breathing dragon behind it instead of a shrimpy guy in head-to-toe couture. Sam lowers his voice and complains, “I’m telling you, Dean, working for this guy is probably what Hell would feel like if Liberace was running it.”

Dean snorts and a dribble of coffee spews out the corner of his mouth. “That’s rough, dude.”

“I think he hates me. Legitimately.”

“Well, that’s understandable.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“But seriously, I don’t know if I can keep this up. I slept for like twenty minutes last night and I drooled all over a stack of headshots. I can’t wait to find out what sadistic punishment he’s gonna give me for that.” Sam sighs and takes a long sip of his coffee.

“You don’t drink coffee,” Dean notes, frowning. Sam’s face scrunches up in apparent disgust.

“I do now. God, that’s gross,” he replies darkly.

Suddenly, the office door down the hall swings open and an aggravated voice shouts, “WINCHESTERRRR!”

Dean and Sam exchange terrified expressions. Then Dean leans back in his chair and salutes.

“I have a feeling he means you.”

“You think?” Sam retorts, inhaling shakily. He scoops up the assorted Polaroids and manila files and trudges away to his supposed doom. The door shuts behind him and, even through Dean strains his ears, he can’t make out anything being said in the office.

Five minutes later, Sam emerges, his face splotchy pink and white, his eyes wide and blinking rapidly. He gives Dean a nervous smile and nearly trips as he sinks back into his chair.

“Uh, you okay?” Dean asks. Sam nods quickly and sweeps the vaguely-sweaty hair back from his forehead. There’s a weird kind of buzzing, twitchy air about him.

“Mm, yes, yeah. I’m cool. It’s cool.”

Dean is unconvinced. “Jesus, what did he do to you?”

Sam looks petrified for a moment, then shrugs exaggeratedly. “Nothing! Everything’s cool.”

“Cool, sure,” Dean says. “You look like someone just gave you a surprise colonoscopy.”

“What? Dean, gross. No. It’s nothing, okay? Just the usual browbeating asshattery,” he assures Dean, with all the trembly neuroticism of a Chihuahua. Or Sally Fields. Then he gulps audibly, cocks his head, furrows his brows, and adds in a rather squeaky voice, “I—I think he kinda gets off on it.” Then he looks up at Dean suddenly, giggles inelegantly, gets to his feet, and all but runs out of the room.

_Oh yeah, that’s not suspicious at all_.

 

The third day of shooting, Dean is relieved and maybe a little disappointed to find that Castiel’s wardrobe is considerably more wholesome. But even in a crisp, white button-up and slick grey slacks, Cas approaches a surreal level of deliciousness. He’s slim, graceful, and today there’s just the perfect shade of stubble across his jaw, which only serves to make his full, pink mouth more obvious. There’s a bitten, chewed kind of swollen look to his lips, and Dean’s brain sets to work immediately imagining how it must feel to take them in his teeth, to drag his tongue across that perfect rose-colored pucker, maybe with one hand tangling in the hair at the back of Castiel’s neck—and again, Dean is panting behind his camera.

_This is getting out of hand._

Just last night Dean secluded himself in his bathroom with one of Cas’s head shots and a pump-bottle of lotion. After a couple hours, Sam became worried and knocked on the door, causing Dean to start in surprise, slip on the bath mat, and clunk his head against the toilet seat.

All day, Dean’s been dodging questions about the yellowy bruise on his forehead, which he explains away by saying that he’d accidentally hit it while lifting weights. It’s a weak cover, to be sure, but everyone seems to accept it, so Dean’s dirty little secret remains under lock and key.

 And even the physical reminder of his obsession isn’t enough to deter him from doing the very same thing tonight, too.

Dean leans on the bathroom counter, one hand supporting him while the other slides up and down around his cock. He’s slicked up and achingly hard, his eyes tightly shut as he pictures Cas tugging down his underwear, lying back on the studio sofa, spreading his legs and moaning wantonly. Dean imagines that Castiel’s dick is flushed a lovely, tantalizing crimson in his growing need for stimulation; he can almost feel the warmth of the model’s body as Dean drapes himself over him, kissing and nipping a line down Cas’s neck, his chest, his flat white stomach, and finally to his cock. Dean gasps as his own dick throbs in his fist, and as he shudders through his orgasm, Dean’s only remotely coherent thought is that he bets Cas would look especially beautiful with Dean’s come streaking his face.

 

At six in the morning, Sam’s alarm clock buzzes, and he rolls over with a groan. It’s Thursday, and as far Sam’s concerned, it’s the worst day of the week. He knows that the second he walks into the agency, Mr. Milton will be waiting in the lobby to hound him about his paperwork until he gets tired of torturing Sam and tracks down another helpless victim to shout at until lunch, at which time he will call Sam into his office, rattle off a long, complicated takeout order, make a snide remark about Sam’s ‘hideous’ shirt, and send him on his way, only to find at least twelve things wrong with the food Sam brings back.

But this isn’t why Thursday is the worst. In fact, most Thursdays are fairly comparable to the rest of the work week. But today, Sam will have to face walking into the office with the startling knowledge that he’s fallen in love with his boss.

He can’t exactly say when it happened, or why, or how. God knows there are a thousand reasons why it _shouldn’t_ have happened. But if Sam’s dream of the night before, which still hangs over him like a veil of shame, is any indication, he’s been harboring these inexcusable feelings for quite some time. It wasn’t just a sex dream. It was the most vividly satisfying and uniquely terrifying sex dream Sam’s ever had. Somewhere in between the bitchy comments and the tense glaring matches and Mr. Milton’s complete disregard of Sam’s personal boundaries, Sam had managed to build a humiliating Jenga tower of warm, fuzzy feelings for the insufferable dickhole. How Sam will successfully keep this hidden from Dean and—God forbid, Mr. Milton himself—is yet to be determined. Yes. It’s going to be an absolutely dreadful Thursday.

 

On day four of Dean’s work with Castiel, the model and his entourage are late again. This time, Dean isn’t annoyed so much as simply disappointed and a little worried. As ridiculous and pointless as it is, Dean can’t deny his attachment to Cas. Apart from having starred in every single one of Dean’s fantasies over the past four days, Cas is incredibly easy to work with and the undisputed highlight of Dean’s days. Dean looks forward to seeing and photographing him with a borderline rabid intensity, to the extent of having to force himself not to daydream and rush through his other appointments. Even with superbly gorgeous women and men posing only several feet away from him for hours, Dean’s mind is utterly consumed with Castiel.

So when the door to the studio finally creaks open and it’s Chuck, not Cas, who strides through, Dean’s gut clenches. Chuck looks harried and tense, scratching at his short, scruffy beard anxiously. “Hey. I was going to call but I was in the neighborhood anyway so I figure I’d just stop in. Sorry to be the bearer of shitty news, but Mr. Novak can’t make it in today,” Chuck reveals gravely.

Dean grits his teeth and swallows hard. “What? What happened? Is he alright?”

Chuck looks a little surprised at the urgency of Dean’s tone, but he replies, “Yeah. Yeah, he’s okay. Just dealing with some personal stuff. Nothing you should worry about. We’re willing to compensate you for the session, obviously. Mr. Novak sends his regards and his deepest apologies for wasting your time like this. I’m aware that it’s totally unprofessional.”

“No worries,” Dean chokes out, completely unconvincingly. “Will he—will he be here tomorrow?”

Chuck rubs his cheek absently. “Ah, yeah, probably. I’ll check with him and make sure. If he says no I’ll let you know in the morning so you don’t have to wait around. Again, I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I know you’re a really busy guy.”

Dean nods and dismisses his apology with a shrug. “Don’t be. Things happen. I just, uh, I just really hope Ca—Mr. Novak is okay,” he reiterates emphatically, hoping to coax a little more information out of Chuck. But the guy simply claps Dean on the shoulder and gives him an apologetic smile.

“You’re a good guy, Mr. Winchester. Well, anyway, hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow. If not, it’s been great working with you. I know Mr. Novak really enjoyed the shoots.”

Dean nearly falls over himself in his rush to respond to this. “Really? Did he? Oh, that’s good. That’s awesome. I enjoyed him a lot, too. Them, I mean. The photoshoots. I enjoyed them,” he says quickly, and then mentally punches himself in the face. Chuck fixes him with a slightly questioning look and then turns to leave.

“I’ll tell him you said that.”

_Fantastic_.

At lunch, Dean sidles down next to Sam, who is poring through a phonebook and muttering under his breath. “Hello?” Dean prompts, nudging Sam’s shoulder.

“Oh. Hey.”

“Finally get so bored you’re reading the phonebook?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “No.”

“Looking for a plastic surgeon to fix your stupid face?”

“No.”

“Looking for a brothel so you can finally ditch that pesky virginity?”

“Christ, Dean, _no_.”

“Looking for a greenhouse so—”

“ _Dean_.”

“—you have a place to finally grow some balls?”

Sam huffs in annoyance, slams the phone book shut, and storms out of the break room. “What climbed up _his_ ass?” Dean mumbles to himself, and shoves a handful of curly fries into his mouth. _Good, Dean. Classic,_ he chastises inwardly _. Drown your feelings in saturated fat_. _Build them belly rolls. That’ll really get Castiel’s motor running_.

                Dean spends the last hour of work pacing in his tiny office, driving himself crazy with increasingly-wild theories as to what happened to Cas. _Maybe he’s getting engaged_ , Dean thinks fearfully. _Maybe he’s moving away. Maybe his dog died. Maybe his cat died. Maybe he’s been kidnapped by the Russian mafia and is currently en route to St. Petersburg to become courtesan to the czar._

                _Maybe I need to track down the world’s hugest bottle of chill pills, crush them up, and snort them in a line because I’m clearly having a mental breakdown_.

                “So what was up with you earlier?” Dean asks Sam as they walk across the parking garage that evening. Sam sighs.

                “Nothing, man, I told you. I’m just kind of stressed out, you know?”

                “Yeah. But Sam—if something was going on, you’d tell me, right?” Dean presses.

                Sam narrows his eyes at him. “Like what?”

                “I don’t know,” Dean says quickly. “You just seem, like, _really_ stressed out. Just feels like there’s something you’re not sharing with the class, here, Sammy.”

                “Well, what about you? Locking yourself in the bathroom for two hours? What the hell, Dean?” Sam quips. Dean flinches. He’d thought Sam had forgotten about that.

                “Maybe I was taking a gigantic dump. Should I inform you next time I think I’m gonna be on the john for more than ten minutes?” Dean says defensively. Sam frowns at him.

                “Please don’t,” he replies. “But if it’s taking you two hours to get it out, you might wanna see a doctor.”

                “Oh, shut up.”

                “Hey, you started it.”

                “What are you, ten?”

                “Excuse me,” purrs a man’s voice from behind Sam and Dean. The pair of them jump at the sound, as the parking garage is almost completely empty this time of night. They quickly turn to see a rather short, stubby guy in a black trench coat standing several paces away.

                “Yeah?” Dean prompts, and the man smiles. It gives Dean an uneasy shiver.

                “Pardon me for asking, but do either of you work for Halo Corp?” the guy asks, his voice all smoky velvet. He swaggers a little closer and Dean immediately tenses. He’s been around long enough to be instantly wary of weirdos creeping around in parking garages.

                Sam nods. “Yeah. We both do.”

                “Why? You lookin’ to get some head shots?” Dean says sarcastically. The man’s mouth turns up slightly at one side. It’s almost a smile, but not quite, and it’s wholly unnerving.

                “Flattering, but no,” he replies, and Dean notices his British accent. “I’m actually looking for someone. A model.”

                “Aren’t we all,” Dean retorts. Sam nudges him as though to reproach him for his rudeness.

                “Business hours are between seven and nine,” Sam says politely.

                The stranger takes another step nearer. “Come on, mates. Why so jumpy? Don’t think you could take little ole me in a scuffle?” He tilts his head condescendingly even as he has to look up at Sam and Dean. “Are you, by chance, acquainted with a pretty fellow called Novak? Blue eyes, dark hair, smile that could charm the Pope into bed?”

                A knot rises in Dean’s gut and he has to smother the urge to punch the guy in the face. He hasn’t said anything exceptionally damning, but it’s the cruel, predatory tone in which it’s said that makes Dean feel nauseous and hot. He grits his teeth and shakes his head. “Who’s asking?”

                “I am.”

                “No shit,” Dean snaps. “Why?”

                “Call it personal interest.”

                “Alright, you creepy fucker. I don’t know what your game is, but if I catch you hanging around again I won’t hesitate to kick your ass,” Dean threatens, and Sam grabs his arm in a panic.

                “Dean!”

                The man chuckles, apparently unaffected. “Duly noted. That’s all I need to know. Good evening, chaps.” He winks, gives a mocking little half-bow, and strides away across the cement.

                “Jesus, Dean,” Sam mutters as they slide into the Impala. “What the hell was that?”

                “Are you kidding? That guy was bad news. Who the fuck does that? Just fucking emerges from the shadows like a damn serial killer?” Dean shoots back, so fired up he feels almost too dizzy to drive.

                “Okay, he was a little weird, but—”

                “A little? Guy was straight-up Dateline material!”

                “Alright, okay, dude. Whatever,” Sam concedes, holding his hands up in surrender.

                That night, Dean doesn’t sleep much.


	2. Chapter 2

                “Good morning, Mr. Winchester!” chirps the beaming redhead at the front desk. Her nameplate reads Charlie Bradbury, and Dean knows that underneath her required black uniform is a well-worn _Firefly_ t-shirt. He also knows that, minimized at the bottom of her computer screen, is a tab for _World of Warcraft_ , and another for Tumblr.com. She’s one of the few human beings in the building who still seems to possess a soul and a mind of her own. Sure, when the bosses stroll by she’s careful to sit up straight and act like she’s just as dead inside as the rest of them, but Dean happens to know she only took this job to pay her art school tuition, and she runs an elaborate _Star Wars_ roleplay community online, usually while she’s supposed to be filing papers.

                “Hey, Charlie,” Dean greets, and leans on the counter. “So, this is gonna sound really weird, but if you see a shifty looking, kind of chunky little guy with dark hair skulking around, call me. Then call security.”

                Charlie’s eyebrows perk up. “You’re right. That does sound really weird. What’s going on?”

                “I’m—I’m not really sure. Just keep an eye for him, okay? Don’t let him past the lobby if you can help it. I think he’s got kind of a thing for one of my models.”

                “Oh, gross,” Charlie says, scrunching her face in disgust. “Got it.”

                “Thanks, Charlie.”

                She winks at him, smiles, and returns to watching her dungeon queue like a hawk.

                Dean spends the whole day on edge, eyeing every unfamiliar person with suspicion until he verifies that they are, in fact, not the creepy British guy. He checks his phone frequently and is distracted enough during one of his shoots for the model, a usually-laidback raven-haired beauty named Sarah Blake (of Provenance Model Co), to march off the set and lock herself in wardrobe for ten minutes.

                When the time approaches for Dean’s appointment with Castiel, he’s nervous and high-strung, biting his nails and referring to his watch several times a minute. He’s almost as petrified to _not_ see Cas as he is to actually see him. Finally, the studio door parts open and Becky comes bustling through, looking uncharacteristically grave. Dean feels sick immediately, expecting more bad news. But Becky walks straight up to Dean and begins apologizing. “I’m so sorry we weren’t here yesterday. It’s so unprofessional. I promise it’s not a regular thing. We’re usually _very_ punctual.”

                Dean decides he’d better not argue with that, despite the mounting evidence disproving her statement. “It’s alright. Is—is Cas here today?” he stammers, feeling like his heart is going to punch through his ribs and start beating on the floor.

                Becky nods just as the door opens again and Chuck barrels through, a wan and pale Castiel trailing after him in a hooded sweatshirt and rumpled jeans. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in days: there are purplish half-moons swelling under his eyes, his hair is especially unruly, and his lips are chapped and colorless. Dean doesn’t want to take his picture—he wants to gather Cas into his arms and kiss him until he’s bright and shining again.

                The model flashes a weak, sad-eyed smile as he passes by, and Dean instantly tells Becky, “No. Not today. He’s not up to it. Look at him.”

                The color drains from Becky’s face and her eyes go wide. “Oh no. Oh no. I’m sorry. He’s just under a lot of stress. Oh, this is terrible. We’ve disappointed you. Oh no.”

                Dean takes her shoulders gently. “It’s fine. It’s okay! This stuff happens. I’m not angry. I just—look at him. He looks like he’s about to fall apart. I can’t make him pose in front of a camera for three hours.”

                Becky bites her lip. “Do you have enough shots from the other days?”

                “I have plenty. More than enough, actually,” he assures her. She reluctantly nods and sighs.

                “Okay. Okay, let me talk to him.”

                Dean releases her shoulders and watches her cross the room quickly and put an arm around Cas. She murmurs something to him and he stares at the floor, looking utterly defeated and broken. Chuck stands by, glancing at the door every thirty seconds or so _. Something isn’t right here_ , Dean thinks.

                He starts moving before he can even assess what he’s planning to do. Dean carefully sidesteps Becky and reaches out to take Castiel’s hands. The model looks shocked and perhaps—could it be?—a little pleased. Dean takes a shallow breath and spills, “I hope you don’t think I’m calling this off because you’re not good enough or anything, because it’s not that at all and in fact I’ve been looking forward to this shoot all day but you’re obviously dog-tired and I can’t put you through this when you really just need to go home and rest and maybe have some tea and watch crappy TV for awhile because I hate seeing you like this and if there’s anything I can possibly do to help I’d more than willing to do whatever you ask because I think you’re fantastic. A fantastic model,” Dean amends lamely. Cas, Becky, and Chuck are all staring at him wordlessly.

                Then a slow smile spreads across Castiel’s face and he squeezes Dean’s hands. “Thank you for understanding.” Then his smile fades a little and he looks exhausted again. “It’s a shame we won’t be working together anymore.”

                “Yeah. It is,” Dean agrees, and it hits him all at once that he won’t see Cas tomorrow or the next day or the next, and it occurs to him that this is simply unacceptable, that he must find a way to fix it. “But uh, you know, I’d really like to see you. Again, I mean. Like, outside of work. With more clothes on, obviously. Or not. Either way. I’m kidding, of course.” Dean will never admit that the next sound out of his mouth can technically be classified as a giggle.

                Cas tilts his head confusedly. “Kidding about what? The clothes or the date?” He pauses, eyes round. “Not that it has to be a date. I don’t want to impose. Either way.” Dean’s heart skips what feels like several beats and he might have been concerned if not for the absolutely radiant smile on Castiel’s face.

                “Sure. Yeah! I mean, yeah, it’s a date,” Dean hurriedly replies. Chuck clears his throat.

                “Mr. Novak, are you sure?” he interrupts. Dean turns on his heel and glares at him.

                “Hey,” Dean says, offended. Chuck shakes his head in apology but doesn’t retract his question. Cas looks conflicted for a moment, glances at Becky for—something; reassurance, maybe?—then heaves a resolute sigh.

                “Yes. I’m sure.”

                Chuck rubs his eyes wearily. “Okay. Your move, man.”

                Becky looks as though she might burst open like a pinata, she’s grinning so hard and nearly trembling with giddiness. “Precious,” she mumbles. Cas rolls his eyes.

                “Here,” the model says, and reaches for Dean’s hand, uncurling his fingers to expose his palm. “Pen?” he directs at Becky. She scrambles in her bag, produces a pink gel pen ( _really_?), and hands it to Cas gleefully. Cas sets to work scrawling a number across Dean’s palm. It’s ticklish, and the scratch of the pen point coupled with the warmth and softness of Castiel’s fingers makes Dean shiver a little.

                “Uh, you know, I do have a cell phone,” Dean says. Castiel’s eyes flit up to his face and he smirks mischievously.

                “Yeah, but if it’s written on your hand you’re less likely to forget to call me.”

                “Sneaky,” Dean laughs. Cas straightens up and pops the cap back on the pen.

                “Just wait,” Cas says slyly. “Tomorrow.”

                “Tomorrow?” Dean murmurs, surprised. Cas shrugs.

                “I just moved here and I haven’t been anywhere except here and my apartment. I’m concerned that if I have to spend another weekend on my couch watching _The Real Housewives of New Jersey_ I might actually turn into a forty-five-year-old woman with a bad tan and fake eyelashes.” It’s more words than Dean’s heard Cas say all at once so far and he finds himself subconsciously leaning toward the model as though he could simply fall into him by osmosis. _You’ve got it bad, bro_.

                Dean snorts. “Oh, well, in that case I guess I don’t have much of a choice.”

                “You always have a choice, Mr. Winchester,” Cas says. “But I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”

                Chuck interrupts again, more forcefully this time: “Mr. Novak.”

                Cas scratches the back of his head, his face falling back into that pained, drawn weariness again, and he slouches away with Becky close behind. She sneaks one last look over her shoulder at Dean, wiggling her fingers in a sassy sort of wave goodbye.

                When he’s finally alone, Dean actually fist-pumps the air and does a quick little victory lap around the set. He heads out to meet Sam in the break room, as usual, but his brother is nowhere to be found, which is unfortunate because Dean is itching to tell someone about his date. After a few minutes of impatiently scouring the cabinets for something to eat (not that he’s hungry, but it’s a great way to pass the time), Dean gives up and decides to pop in on Charlie. He mutters, “Yahtzee,” under his breath when he discovers an unopened package of Pop-Tarts, just before he’s about to abandon his search. Today is definitely his lucky day.

 

                “Okay, this has to be against company policy,” Sam grunts, as Gabriel Milton winds himself around Sam’s waist, pressing him to the wall of his office, the majority of their clothes lying in a crumpled heap on the polished mahogany desk. “I know because you made me memorize it.”

                “If you’re going to start reciting workplace relationship regulations, I might as well put my pants back on,” Gabriel replies impatiently. He grinds his crotch against Sam’s thigh and a frustrated moan rattles from his throat.

                “I just don’t want to be fired for this,” Sam says, but his argument is weakened by the fact that he’s got his hands on Gabriel’s bare back, tugging him closer.

                “Your dirty talk is lacking, Winchester.”

                “I’m serious. I need this internship.”

                Gabriel bites at Sam’s chest, tongue flicking lightly over his nipple. Sam sucks in a sharp breath and rocks against him unwittingly. He can feel Gabriel smile against his skin.

                “Relax. I’m your boss. If you go down, I’m going down with you.”

                Sam grins at the double-entendre. “Is that a promise?”

                “Consider it part of your contract,” Gabriel murmurs, and slips a hand down Sam’s khakis.

                “Oh— _fuck_ —wait, contract?”

                “Yeah, Slowsky McGee, you’re the best intern I’ve had in years.” Gabriel’s fingers curl around Sam’s cock and starts to slide smoothly up and down. His thumb brushes gently over the slit, teasing the head, and Sam moans, elated.

                “How do I know you’re not just keeping me around for—this?” Sam manages to ask, between stuttering breaths and gasps. Gabriel laughs.

                “Please. I have a modicum of integrity,” he scoffs, sinking to his knees. His mouth closes hotly around Sam’s cock and all hopes of continuing the argument vanish immediately. _Integrity feels fucking awesome_.

 

                Dean has never seen anyone or anything as absurdly beautiful as the dark-haired boy across the table from him. It’s four o’ clock on Saturday afternoon, and despite the fact that Dean and Castiel have spent the last five hours together, traversing the town and loitering in parks, shops, and cafes, Dean is still in a state of disbelief. Cas, for all his tight-lipped professionalism on set, is engaging and talkative today, though he seems to prefer listening to Dean talk. Dean had woken up ridiculously early, hours before his alarm was set to go off, so anxious about their date that sleep was a laughable prospect. After a couple hours of deliberation and heated internal argument, Dean had called Castiel, his palm sweating around the receiver, and pitched the idea of simply spending the day together—on the pretense of wanting to show Cas around the town.

                To Dean’s unending relief, Cas had happily agreed.

                However, much of the day is spent in a sort of half-numb daze, and Dean is fairly certain that Cas isn’t absorbing the majority of the ‘sights’ they’re supposed to be seeing. The different locations are almost irrelevant—colorless props and backdrops for the greater plot, the fledgling love story Dean is almost too superstitious to acknowledge in case he jinxes it. It’s been a perfect day, and watching Castiel animatedly divulge his favorite movie ( _The Breakfast Club_ , partly because he’s long harbored a fondness for Judd Nelson), his favorite book ( _Fahrenheit 451_ , “because it’s basically poetry!”), and his favorite dessert: angel food cake with strawberries, Dean wonders how he’s managed to snag this one.

                “Judd Nelson, huh?” Dean says. Cas nods and takes a sip of his café au lait.

                “It was the hair, I think,” he replies, a little embarrassed. “What about you? Who was your unattainable celebrity crush?”

                Dean ponders this for a minute. “Burt Reynolds.”

                Cas nearly spits out his coffee in a fit of laughter. “What? Really? So, was it the ‘stache?”

                Dean nods. “Oh yeah. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like a ride on that lip-warmer.”

                “Ugh,” Cas says with a shudder, “no thank you. I like my kisses without the prickly stuff.”

                Instinctively, Dean lifts a hand to feel along his upper lip, checking for prickliness. Castiel smiles and Dean feels his face get hot. Cas leans across the table, his eyes set on Dean’s lips, slides one hand around to the back of Dean’s neck, and pulls him in for a soft, barely-there kiss.

                Dean feels light-headed.

                Cas pulls back, licking his lips, and there’s a foggy, darkened look to his eyes. “Sorry,” he breathes, voice breaking over the word. Dean blinks a few times to bring himself back to reality, but he’s already too far gone, his stomach doing acrobatics and his heart stumbling like a drunk gazelle.

                “Don’t be,” he mutters, and adds nervously, “C’mere.”

                Hesitantly, Castiel leans forward again, and this time Dean rises to meet him. Their lips collide and immediately part, and Cas sighs into the kiss. He tastes like coffee, naturally, but also like honey and something like Heaven. His lips are so soft, but the kiss is hard, and when Cas’s hands come up to knot in Dean’s hair, Dean knows they should probably leave.

                Raggedly, Cas asks, “Do you live close?”

                In the next thirty seconds, Dean sweeps up his coat, takes Castiel’s hand, and pulls him into the Impala without a word. As the engine rumbles to life, Cas reaches across the console to turn Dean’s head toward him, and kisses him again—this time, slowly and purposefully, all tongue and pressure and hot breath. When he pulls back, Dean fires the car into motion, and he probably breaks about eight road regulations on the short drive to his apartment building, but the sight of Cas’s flushed face and swollen lips in the reflection of the windshield spur him not to care. They slam to a halt, the car parked rather crookedly in its space, and tumble out into the street. Dean’s fingers lock with Castiel’s, and the two of them race to the elevator, dearly hoping the box is empty.

                It is.

                “Is this really happening?” Dean murmurs dazedly, as Cas’s hands slide up his shirt.

                Cas looks concerned. “Why? Do you want me to stop?”

                “Don’t even think about it.”

                By the time they reach the third floor, Cas’s tie is hanging unevenly off his shoulder, and Dean’s shirt is nearly off; most damning is the location of Dean’s hands, cupping the model’s ass inside his jeans. The elevator _dings_ and the doors slide apart, revealing them to an astonished pair of little old women, who stare in silent shock as Dean and Cas sheepishly shuffle past, muttering apologies. Dean fumbles with his key at his apartment door, hoping Sam isn’t home—meanwhile, Cas is behind him, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist and breathing tantalizingly in his ear.

                They stumble inside and Dean is delighted to find the apartment bereft of disapproving little brothers. “Couch or bed?” Dean asks quickly, praying that he’s not being too forward.

                “Fuck, I don’t care,” Cas replies, already stripping out of his clothes.

                “Couch is closer,” Dean says, and Cas agrees.

                The model lies back against the grey sofa, spreading his legs, his eyes half-lidded. It’s so like Dean’s fantasies that for a second he wonders if he’s simply fallen into a fever dream, that is, until Cas says impatiently, “Dean, come on.”

                Dean slips out of his pants and shirt fast enough to tear the hem of the collar just the tiniest bit. He crashes against Cas, who instantly arches against him hungrily. “God, I want you—I’ve wanted you so bad,” Dean whispers into the model’s smooth, white neck. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

                Cas rocks into him, his fingernails dragging down the planes of Dean’s back. “Why didn’t you take me, then? You could’ve had me from day one.”

                “You were so quiet.”

                With perfect timing, Cas moans, sending vibrations humming down Dean’s spine. “Only at first,” he replies, and adds, “I can be loud if you want.”

                “ _Fuck_.”

                Dean is panting now, as Cas passes his palm across the bulge of his boxers. “You know what _I_ want, Dean?” Cas murmurs, his breath tickling the hollow behind Dean’s ear. “I want you to fuck me into this couch. I want you to fill me up and make me yours.”

                Dean groans and backs off to dig around under the sofa while Cas watches in confusion. “What’re you—?”

                Dean produces a little bottle of lube and Cas laughs, a little breathless. “I’m not even going to question that.”

                “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.” Dean slides back over Cas, who tugs down Dean’s boxers hastily, taking his cock with both hands. Dean pushes into the soft grip; he’s so hard that every inch of his skin is ringing with it, every point of contact between his body and Castiel’s like an electric shock. He carefully maneuvers the model’s briefs down and away, dropping them unceremoniously on the coffee table. Suddenly, he stops and bites his lip, and sorrowfully laments, “I don’t—I don’t have a condom.”

                Cas looks like he’s weighing this issue for a few moments, then he grinds upward, his cock sliding warmly against Dean’s, and he says, “I trust you.”

                Dean gulps, nods, and slicks up his fingers to press gently at Cas’s hole. The model whimpers and pushes into the pressure longingly. “Please,” he mumbles. Dean obliges, slipping a finger inside, slowly, and Cas’s eyes flutter shut. “More.”

                Dean works another finger into him, and crooks them in search of the blindingly good spot he knows Cas is hoping for. When he finds it, the model cries out and digs his fingers into Dean’s shoulder blades, his hips pushing up, desperate for more. “Dean! I need you. I need you now.”

                His face is rosy, lips bitten and pink and perfect, and Dean can’t wait anymore. He wanted this to be slow, careful—but there’s just no chance of that happening now. He hurriedly drops his hand to his cock, coating himself with lube and shivering at the too-good friction of his own palm and fingers; he’s not going to last long. Dean pushes into Cas in tiny, maddening increments, until Castiel’s hips rock up to him, and he takes Dean’s cock eagerly, a wild cry ripping from his throat. Dean places a hand on the model’s flat white stomach, reveling in the ripple and squeeze of tight muscles under his fingertips, and his other hand comes up to cup Castiel’s cheek. He thumbs over the model’s open mouth, and to his surprise Cas sucks it in eagerly, like he’s starving to be filled up in every way possible. It’s almost too much—the sight of Cas’s lips wrapped tightly around his thumb combined with the overwhelming, delicious tightness of the model’s ass around Dean’s cock. Finally, he remembers to move, and he thrusts into Cas hard, just once.

                “Fuck!” the model yelps, releasing Dean’s thumb as his head thrashes side to side.

                Dean growls and pushes into him again and again, losing his sense of caution in favor of reckless fucking, and Cas encourages him all the while, moaning Dean’s name like it’s a curse word, clawing at Dean’s neck, back, and hips. “You’re so fucking pretty,” Dean says gruffly, and he can’t stop his mouth anymore. Nothing matters but the furious rhythm of his thrusts as he presses deeper and deeper. “So perfect, Cas. You feel so fucking good.”

                Castiel’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and he wraps a hand around his own abandoned cock, stroking quickly as Dean’s advances grow more erratic, and then Cas is shouting and coming, and his face is the portrait of ecstasy itself, his eyes rolling back and closing, his mouth pulling into a perfect bowed circle. He shivers and trembles and soon Dean comes, too, pulling out just in time to paint Cas’s pretty thighs in streaks.

                For a few minutes, they’re both quiet, breathing hard and soaking in the elation of what they’ve just done. Then, meekly, Cas asks, “What time is it?”

                Dean rolls off the couch to check the stove clock. “Holy shit. It’s seven-thirty.”

                “Wow,” Cas says breathily, but makes no effort to move. Dean sits up beside him, stroking the model’s damp, dark hair adoringly. He fingers the wet little coils at Cas’s temples, curled from sweat. Dean wonders what Cas looks like in the morning, sleepy-eyed and soft.

                _Go for it, you sackless bitch_ , he urges himself.

                “Do you—do you want to stay the night?” Dean suggests, a little fearfully. But Castiel’s face glows at the proposal and he nods, wriggling closer to Dean.

                “Yes, please.”                                           

 

                The weekend passes quickly and blissfully, and when Sunday evening rolls around, Cas is obviously reluctant to leave. He’s curled under the thin sheets of Dean’s bed, half-clothed, with sex-mussed hair and a shadow of stubble darkening his face. Dean is lying beside him, tracing unknowable shapes into Castiel’s forearm with his finger. Several times today Cas has announced that it’s “really time for him to go”, only to be easily swayed into staying awhile longer. Now that it’s starting to grow dim outside, Dean is admitting that perhaps Cas ought to actually head home soon.

                “I’m sorry for camping out here all weekend,” Castiel mumbles, but he doesn’t look sorry at all. “I promise this isn’t a regular thing for me.”

                “I’m not complaining.”

                “And sorry for traumatizing your brother.”

                Dean snorts. Sam had come home late last night to find Dean and Cas stark-naked in the kitchen, cooking breakfast for dinner. He’d screamed and stumbled away into his room, where he’d hidden out until this morning, when he’d headed back out to God knows where. (Dean’s offer of pancakes and bacon had fallen flat, understandably.) “It’s okay. He’s a big boy. He’ll recover.”

                “I hope so. I’ll never forgive myself if Sam starts associating the smell of bacon with the sight of his brother’s penis.”

                “Hey, bacon is worth the mental anguish. He’ll work through it.” Dean props himself up on one elbow. Castiel’s fingers emerge from under the sheet to caress the ticklish underside of Dean’s arm. Suddenly, a persistent question seizes Dean’s brain, and he mutters, “So, if this is too personal, don’t worry about it, but I gotta ask: what the hell happened on Thursday? I missed you.”

                Cas’s face pales. “I missed you, too,” he says softly. When he doesn’t offer more information, Dean prods his shoulder gently. Castiel gives him a slip of a smile.

                “Oh, you don’t want to hear about that.”

                Dean lifts an eyebrow. “I wanna know everything about you.” He immediately regrets his words; he’s certain that he’s crossed the line from sweet to creepy. But Cas seems to get it.

                “It’s nothing to worry about: I just, uh, got a phone call. A bad one,” the model admits hesitantly. Dean leans closer and does his best to look utterly intrigued. Cas sighs and continues: “It’s depressing.”

                “I can handle it.”

Cas reluctantly goes on, “It’s this guy I used to work with. Fergus Crowley.”

“Weird name,” Dean comments.

“We called him Fergie behind his back.” Cas pauses. “I didn’t _really_ know him. He was one of the higher-up guys. I saw him in the elevator once and he just kind of—stared at me. But then he started hanging around my shoots.”

                “Your shoots?” Dean interrupts, confused. Cas nods.

                “Yeah,” he says, and smiles without even a hint of amusement. “I’m not really new to this. I’ve been modeling since I was sixteen.”

                “Wow. Well, I can’t say it’s all that surprising. You’re one of the best I’ve ever worked with.”

                “Thank you,” Cas replies quickly. “So this guy, Crowley, keeps coming down and just— _watching_ —my shoots. Never said anything, not for the longest time. He made me nervous; I thought he was sent down to grade me or something. I was eighteen. I didn’t know how it worked, and I needed the job to pay rent, so I would, you know, smile at him and stuff. I just didn’t want to lose the money. Then one day, out of the blue, he asked me out. Maybe I should have said no. But I was too intimidated. I mean, this guy could have had me dropped from the agency in a second.”

                Dean reaches under the sheets to find Castiel’s hand. The model’s fingers curl over his own gratefully. “He insisted on picking me up from my apartment—I lived with Becky, like I do now—and he said he was gonna take me to a restaurant. I don’t know.”

                “What happened?”

                “Nothing. I mean, I guess that’s the problem. We went to the restaurant, we talked, we ate. But there wasn’t anything there. I was just a broke little kid with this big-wig business guy. For me it was basically just a free meal. But there’s no such thing.”

                Dean sits up, suddenly feeling sick. “What did he do to you?”

                “Don’t worry. He didn’t try anything. I said goodbye and I thought that was the end of it. But he kept coming to my shoots and then one day he turned up at my apartment building, waiting for me to come out.”

                “What the fuck, Cas?” Dean interjects suddenly. “That is not okay!”

                “It didn’t stop there. He started following me home after work. I—I guess he had my schedule. Hell, he might have been _making_ my schedule. He harassed me almost every day. I was kind of afraid to leave my apartment. Becky was really good about it—she did the grocery shopping and everything so I wouldn’t have to leave. But then I suppose he figured out that she was my roommate, so he confronted her, too. You know Becky. It didn’t go well.”

                “Aw man,” Dean sighs.

                “Yeah. I kept missing appointments, obviously, so the agency dropped me. I thought it was a good thing, really—like maybe he’d just get tired of stalking me. That was stupid.”

                “Wait, is this like a witness protection thing?” Dean asks suddenly.

                Cas smiles, a little morosely. “Not exactly. I wanted to get a restraining order, but like I said, I was broke. And he was powerful. I wouldn’t have had any idea how to even do it. And I thought it would be better if I just ignored him. Crowley called and texted me every day, over and over, and then he showed up at my door. I don’t know how he figured out which apartment was mine. Maybe he followed Becky. I don’t know. But anyway, it was bad. So we moved.”

                “When was this?” Dean asks, eyes narrowed and teeth gritted. Cas fidgets with the loose corner of the pillowcase.

                “Four years ago.”

                “And he called you on Thursday?”

                Castiel turns to lie on his back, staring at the ceiling. “He’s been calling me every Thursday for four years, Dean. But this time he left a message.”

                “Cas, what did he say?” Dean presses urgently, his heart hammering in his chest.

                The model takes a deep breath. “’Found you.’”

                It hits Dean like a sack of flour to the face. “Wait. What does Crowley look like? Is he British?”

                Castiel sits up and stares at Dean, his mouth falling open. The color washes from his face immediately. “Y-yes. How did you—?” He looks as though he might cry, but he swallows it back. “Dean, did he talk to you?”

                “Kinda short, dark hair, sneaky weasel face?”

                Cas gives a silent assent and Dean swears.

 

                “Sit down, Sam, you’re making me nervous,” Gabriel snaps, pulling his designer shoes back on after yet another hurried lunch-break tryst. Sam is nervously circling the office, his hair tellingly disheveled, biting his thumb nail. Gabe tosses a paper clip at him. “Hey! I’m serious. You’re gonna give me an ulcer.”

                Sam stops pacing. “I was practically gone _all_ weekend. Dean hasn’t said anything yet, but he’s going to. What am I supposed to tell him, Gabe? ‘Well, Dean, it’s a funny story—you see, here I was, minding my own business, when suddenly I got my dick stuck in some guy’s ass! Oh, and just to clarify, that guy is our boss!’ How do you think that’ll go down? Because I have a feeling it will not end well,” he hisses fervently.

                Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Relax, kiddo. You’re way too young to let your blood pressure get this high. If he asks, tell him the truth. What’s the worst he could do?”

                “He could report us!”

                “To whom?”

                “I don’t know! Who’s your boss?”

                Gabe smirks and crosses his arms across his chest smugly. “I don’t work for anybody. Besides, you went home Saturday night. It’s not like we eloped or anything.”

                “Yeah, but I usually stay in on the weekends.”

                “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me at all.”

                Sam gives him a scowl and rakes his fingers back through his hair. “I know he’s gotta be suspecting something. Dean’s looked after me since I was four—he pays attention to this stuff. Then again, he’s been pretty distracted.”

                Gabriel looks suddenly interested. “Go on.”

                “That model guy from last week; he was at the apartment when I got home. I’m pretty sure he stayed the night,” Sam says, then shivers visibly, recalling the regrettable scene in the kitchen.

                “I could’ve seen that coming a mile away,” Gabriel remarks, rolling his eyes. “That kid’s too pretty for his own good.”

 

                “Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?” Castiel asks uncertainly. Dean turns and gives him a reassuring smile, pushing open the studio door. Inside, there are already a full crew of assistants and makeup artists bustling around, and a few of them do a double take when they catch sight of Cas. The model seems to shrink into himself a little under their stares.

                “It’s my studio. My rules,” Dean answers quietly, and shakes his head ever so slightly toward the gawking assistants. Cas reluctantly slides into the chair next to Dean’s. It’s been three weeks since the first call from Crowley, and after several more threatening and wholly unsettling voicemails, Dean has insisted that Cas tag along with him to work today to keep an eye on him. Dean’s holding it together for the most part, outwardly, but when Castiel isn’t looking at him, Dean has to suck back the lump of anxiety building in his throat.

                The past few weeks have been simultaneously wonderful and terrible. On the one hand, there’s the fact that Dean’s been spending almost every free moment with Cas, which is unquestionably awesome. But there’s always the hovering, lurking presence of Crowley, like an invisible shroud keeping the model wrapped up and separate, distant even when Dean’s pressed hard against him, even when they’re tangled together under the sweat-hot sheets. Right now, Castiel is trying to be inconspicuous as he checks his phone for the millionth time. Dean knows it’s torturing him, living this way. The poor guy’s essentially been on the run for years. Dean wishes Crowley would show up again. _I’d rip his fucking lungs out through his ass_.

                “W-what was that?” asks the astonished little intern holding a clipboard out to him. It takes Dean a second to realize that he’s been thinking out loud. _Great_. He quickly wracks his brain for an excuse.

                “Oh, uh, nothing. Just singin’ a death metal song. You know—that one—that goes ‘ _la la la rip out his lungs through his ass,_ uh _, in the name of rock and roll’_ ,” Dean half-sings, hoping that she’ll just drop it. To his relief, she sort of nods and smiles nervously, then shuffles away still holding the clipboard, glancing back over her shoulder a few times as though she’s afraid Dean might try to rip _her_ lungs out.

                It’s going to be one of those days.

                It doesn’t help that Sam’s been especially jumpy all morning; Dean suspects he’s been out seeing someone, because he’s gone a lot of the time now. For a guy who used to spend every waking moment either working or thinking about working, Sam’s definitely slacking now. It’s a strange blip in his character, but Dean has decided to let it slide for the time being. Dean’s got bigger fish to fry.

                Only five minutes into the first shoot of the day, Dean’s cell phone starts to buzz in his back pocket. He tries to silence it hastily (Lucifer is persnickety about on-set distractions), but when Dean sees Charlie’s name on the screen, he immediately retreats to a quiet corner of the studio to answer the call.

                “Charlie? What’s up?”

                He hears a high-pitched, breathy giggle, which is definitively more terror than mirth, and then Charlie whispers, “Uh, so you know that dude I was supposed to look out for?”

                Dean’s jaws clench. “What? He’s here? Did you see him?”

                She lowers her voice even further: “I—I think he’s in the lobby.”

                “As in, right in front of you?”

                “No,” she hisses into the receiver, “I’m in the girls’ bathroom.” There’s the whoosh of a flushing toilet and a deep voice murmuring something in the background. Charlie adds quietly, “Correction. Men’s room.”

                Dean rubs his forehead. “Charlie, just tell me what you saw.”

                “Okay. Well, I was playing _Galaga_ —I mean, scheduling appointments—and then this guy came in and just kind of sat down. I asked him if I could help him with anything and he said he was waiting for someone. So I asked him who, and he didn’t answer.”

                “What?”

                “He just smiled.”

                “Oh, that’s creepy. What did he look like?”

                “Uh, handsome charming leprechaun? But evil.”

“Yeah. It’s gotta be him. Did you get his name? Just to be sure.”

                “No. I didn’t want to tip him off. I got really nervous and sweaty so I hid in the bathroom.”

                “Is he still there?” Dean asks in an undertone, then says, “Never mind, just stay there. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” He ends the call and swivels around to find Cas staring him in the face.

                “What was that about?” Castiel asks, his hands twisting together anxiously. Dean pats his shoulder and slides past him.

                “Nothing, angel. Don’t worry. I’m just gonna run downstairs real quick. Stay here.”

                “But—”

                “I’ll be right back,” Dean says finitely. He kisses Castiel’s cheek and hurries out the door, leaving Cas staring after him worriedly.

 

                Sam finds himself sharing an elevator with Dean, who looks like he’s ten seconds away from ripping someone’s lungs out. “Uh, hey man, are you okay?” he inquires, nudging at Dean’s shoulder.

                Dean glances up at him and nods. “Yeah. Yeah.” Then his face darkens and he shakes his head. “No. I’m really not. Look, if anything happens to me, erase my Internet history and take care of Cas. And don’t you dare sell my leather jacket.”

                “Whoa, whoa, what?” Sam exclaims. “What are you talking about?”

                “He might have a gun on him,” Dean mumbles to himself. Sam’s eyes widen.

                “What? Who? Dean, come on. What the hell?”

                “Shit, I don’t even have a plan. What if he shoots me?”

                Sam punches Dean’s arm, slamming him into the elevator door just as it opens. He spills out into the lobby and Sam hurries out to help him up. “Sorry, but you can’t just say shit like that, dude. What’s going on?”

                Dean scrambles to his feet and looks around in a panic. The front entrance is sliding shut—there’s a dark figure disappearing into the crowded street. “Oh no you don’t, you shifty little bastard,” Dean mutters, and takes off for the entrance. Charlie emerges from the men’s bathroom timidly, watching as Dean flies past, Sam trailing confusedly after him.

                “What the fuck, Dean? Where are you going? Stop!” Sam barks at him. But Dean ignores him and bolts through the clamoring masses. By the time Sam catches up, Dean’s doubled over on the sidewalk, looking utterly defeated.

                “Go back inside, Sam. He got away. The slimy asswipe.”

                “Pleasant imagery,” Sam comments, wrinkling his nose. “Who were you chasing? Have you lost your mind? Come on.” He tugs Dean upward and drags him back into the building. Charlie’s face falls at the sight of them.

                “Mission incomplete?” she says sympathetically. Dean sighs and leans on the counter.

                “He was _right there_ , man,” Dean groans. “I almost got him.”

                “If you don’t explain right this fucking second _I’m_ gonna get _you_ ,” Sam threatens.

                Dean takes a deep breath and gives Sam a rundown of the situation, at the end of which Sam shakes his head and throws up his hands in disbelief. “And what were you gonna do about it, Dean? If you’d caught him, what would you have done?”

                Dean looks defensive. “I don’t know, punched him in his ugly mug to begin with.”

                “And then what?”

                Dean opens his mouth to speak and then gives up, rolling his eyes.

                “Too bad you don’t have, like, a big bad ass lawyer guy or something,” Charlie muses sadly.

                Suddenly Sam straightens up and looks triumphant, a smile spreading across his face. “I might know somebody,” he says. Dean frowns at him in confusion.

                “Who?”

                “Uh,” Sam stalls, feeling his face start to burn, searching for an alibi. _Oh, fuck it_. “Gabriel.”

                Dean blinks a few times in apparent shock. “Milton?”

                “No, the archangel,” Sam replies sarcastically. “Yes, Milton. He’s got, uh, connections.”

                “Well, yeah, but why the hell would he wanna help us? I mean, the guy’s pretty busy, and he’s kind of a dick,” Dean reasons, and then stops short, the color washing from his cheeks. He stares up at Sam, his mouth falling open. “You—you’re fucking him, aren’t you?”

                “You’re sleeping with one of your models,” Sam retorts, and Dean shrugs it off.

                “So you’re banging the boss,” Dean clarifies incredulously. “Huh.”

                “Yeah. It’s no big deal. Can we skip the interrogation, please?”

                Dean looks reluctant to let it go, but then the elevator dings, and Cas comes padding out, a scowl on his pretty face.

                “What the hell, Dean?” he exclaims.

                “Wow, how many times am I gonna hear that today?” Dean groans. Charlie looks up from her computer screen, sensing the opportunity to be snarky.

                “What the hell, Dean?” she pipes up, grinning. Dean, Sam, and Cas all shoot her withering glares and she sinks back into the swivel chair, deflated. “Yeah. Sorry. Tact.”

                “What happened?” Cas presses. “Lucifer’s—not pleased you walked out on him.”

                “I had to, um, I had to talk to someone,” Dean says feebly. Castiel tilts his head in confusion, then the realization crosses his face.

                “Fergie,” he breathes. Dean nods and pulls Cas into his arms.

                “Don’t worry. We’ll fix this,” Dean murmurs.

                Sam squints at the ceiling, slipping into brainstorm mode. He whips out his cell phone, scrolls rapidly through the contacts, and hammers out a quick barrage of text messages. Only thirty seconds later, the phone beeps and Sam reads the response, a conspiratorial smirk taking his lips.

                “Gabe’s in.”


	3. Chapter 3

                “Do you really think this will work?” Castiel asks nervously, watching Dean with wide eyes. “What if he doesn’t fall for it? He’s a pretty smart guy, Dean.”

                “It works for the Roadrunner,” Dean jokes dismissively and fiddles with the control knobs on a tape recorder. Once he deems it ready, he slips it back behind a stack of books on the mantel. The apartment is pretty sparsely furnished, and what little décor exists was clearly arranged by Becky. There are frilly, lace-edged pillows and doilies on every surface, and the DVD cabinet is stuffed full of various television seasons, as well as every movie Johnny Depp has ever been in. The color scheme of the rooms might have been determined by a _Seventeen_ magazine centerfold—all pinks and purples and soft pastels. Dean feels thoroughly out of place.

                “Life isn’t a cartoon,” Cas says quietly. He’s sitting on the pale yellow couch cross-legged, with his slender hands folded delicately in his lap. He looks like he might have stepped out of a magazine, too. Maybe _Men’s Health_.

                The walkie-talkie clipped to Dean’s belt chokes out a belch of static and then a gruff male voice asks, “ _Is everything set_?” Dean holds the device to his lips and presses the speak button.

                “I thought we agreed on a code, Agent Singer.”

                There’s an exasperated sigh, garbled with interference. “ _It’s Lieutenant_.” Dean stares expectantly at the walkie-talkie, and Cas opens his mouth as if to intervene, but Dean holds up a hand to shush him. Finally, a crackling noise comes through, accompanied by a disgruntled: “ _Is the bird in its nest_?” Dean grins at Castiel, who shakes his head and swipes the walkie-talkie from him.

                “Yes, Lieutenant. I’m here. Everything is ready to go.”

                There’s a pause, and then a female voice sizzles through the receiver: “ _The hounds are poised for the hunt_.” Then she chuckles good-naturedly and says, “ _That good enough for you, James Bond_?”

                Dean leans over Cas’s shoulder to reply, “Yes, ma’am. The text is sent.”

                “ _Alright. Now you better get your ass into a damn good hiding place. And keep quiet. If you have to sneeze, don’t_ ,” Sheriff Mills instructs. Cas turns to Dean with luminous, frightened eyes. Dean gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, kisses his forehead, and backs away, shoving his phone into his shirt pocket.

                “Okay, angel, we can do this. Remember: when that sleazebag shows up, you just let him in, act like everything’s peachy. Be a good host. Get him some—I don’t know, cookies and tea or something. I’ll be in the closet. If he tries anything before Mills and Singer get up here, I’ll save you.”

                Castiel nods and Dean can see a fearful gulp travel down the model’s throat. “I love you, Dean,” he says quietly.

                “I know,” Dean whispers back as he closes himself into the linen closet. In spite of his pounding heart and fraying nerves, an unbidden smile crosses his face. He’s always wanted to Solo somebody.

 

                Castiel toys with the cell phone in his lap, one foot jiggling in a subconscious attempt to work out some of his anxiety. He scrolls again and again through his text inbox, waiting for Crowley’s name to come up on the screen, highlighted and flashing. It’s been thirty-five minutes since he first sent the text, which read: _hey u its been a long time i would love 2 meet up with u if u wanna come over_. He’d balked at the lack of punctuation and capitalization at first; being notoriously finicky about those kinds of things, but Dean assured him that the message would convey the proper amount of casualness they were looking for. Cas worries that Crowley will have seen through the ruse—he is (or at least he _was_ ), after all, a successful businessman. He isn’t an idiot.

And forty-eight minutes later, the text still has not been answered. Cas has checked in on Dean a few times during the wait, lacing their fingers together for brief moments, stealing hurried, desperate kisses through the doorway of the linen closet. The walkie-talkie is turned off, and Dean has his phone at the ready, to send a text to Sam whenever Crowley shows up. Sam is downstairs, presumably in a cop car, with Sheriff Mills and Lieutenant Singer, both of whom were called in by Gabriel. Cas wonders vaguely how Mr. Milton has come to be acquainted with the officers, but he simply chalks it up to Gabriel’s position of great prominence in the community. (Although Cas sometimes entertains the musing that perhaps Gabriel had once been a spy. It certainly would not have seemed a huge departure from the realm of possibility.) Castiel is just considering getting up to check on Dean again when the doorbell buzzes.

Cas nearly falls off the sofa.

Scrambling to smooth his hair and frantically scanning the room for possible tip-offs to stow away last minute, Cas calls out, “Just a minute!” He gets to his feet unsteadily and pads across the carpet to answer the door. He knows that Dean is watching, probably biting his lip or chewing the inside of his cheek nervously, his thumb hovering over the SEND button on his cell phone. Castiel peeks through the tiny eyehole in the door, standing on his tip-toes, and feels an immediate shock of nausea. The door clicks open and Becky comes stumbling into the apartment, her arms completely full of brown paper grocery bags. “Thanks for getting the door,” she chirps happily, “Sometimes I forget I’ve only got two arms!” She sets the bags rather clumsily on the kitchen counter and wipes her hands on her jeans, smiling in that effervescent kind of way for which she could probably get a patent. When she catches sight of Castiel’s concerned expression, she cocks her head to the side and says, “Oh, sweetheart. What’s wrong? What happened? That boy didn’t dump you, did he? I always thought he looked like the love ‘em and leave ‘em type—”

Cas quickly interrupts, “Shhh. No, no, that’s not—he’s here. Dean, I mean. He’s in the closet.”

Becky raises an eyebrow. “Well, you’ve been dating for awhile, I think he can come out now.” She giggles, leaning on the counter. Cas shakes his head vigorously.

“No, I mean literally: he’s in the closet. The linen closet. Right there.” Cas nods his head in the direction of the closet, from which comes a muffled, “Hi Becky.”

Before Becky can say another word, Cas says, “We’re doing a kind of, erm, sting operation.”

Becky’s eyes widen and her mouth pulls into a shocked little ‘o’. “Fergie?”

Castiel gives a positive hum. “So you’ve got to either get out of here or be very quiet.”

She purses her lips and draws an invisible X over her mouth with a flourish of her pointer finger. “I’ll stay out of the way. But I’m warning you, if he so much as breathes on you I will scream and call the cops.”

Cas sighs. “We’ve already got cops outside, Becky. Don’t do anything. Don’t—just don’t.”

Peering at him sideways, Becky finally relents and stalks off to her bedroom, shooting Cas a wink before shutting the door. Just as Cas is about to sit back down on the couch, the doorbell buzzes once more. There’s a faint gasp from Becky’s room, and Castiel’s cell phone beeps. The text he receives says simply: _here_. Cas glances at the closet door, assures himself that behind it waits a very strong, very capable man, and then he goes to answer the front door.

He checks the little peephole, takes a deep breath, wills his hands to stop trembling, and opens the door. Crowley is dressed in a much shabbier manner than Castiel’s ever seen him in before; his hair is uncombed and somewhat greasy, poking out in irregular tufts all over his head. He’s got a bottle of very cheap wine in one hand. If this is Crowley’s attempt to woo him, it’s a truly pathetic one. “Hello, Mr. Novak,” Crowley says in that gravelly purr, somewhat rougher than Cas remembers.

“Hi,” Cas replies, forcing a smile to his lips. “It has been awhile, hasn’t it?”

Crowley smirks. “Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s been that long. I, er, I see you around from time to time.”  Cas represses a shudder and clears the way for Crowley to come in.

“Nice place you’ve got,” Crowley remarks, uncorking the wine bottle easily and taking a swig. “It looks much better on the inside.”

“Thanks,” Cas says flatly. He’s determined to hold it together until the deed is done, even though his stomach is knotting itself into achy queasy twists and he feels lightheaded. Crowley in his apartment, trolling through his living room, picking up knickknacks and setting them down as though he’s been here before—it’s enough to make Castiel physically ill.

“Your roommate, that girl, is she home?” Crowley asks suddenly. Cas shakes his head.

“No. Nope. It’s just you and me,” Cas assures him. Crowley’s relief is almost tangible.

“Lovely.”

There’s a rustling sound from the closet and Cas coughs to cover it. _Hurry_ , Castiel thinks. “So have you been in town long?” he asks aloud, trying his best to sound casual.

“Oh, not very. Funny how we ended up in the same place again, isn’t it?” Crowley replies.

_Bastard_. “Yes. Funny.”

“Serendipity, is what it is,” Crowley adds cheerily. Then he pauses, turns, and strides across the room to stand right in front of Cas. A predatory smile curls his lips. “You know, Mr. Novak, I’ve been expecting you to reach out to me for quite some time. I knew it would happen eventually,” he growls, lifting one hand to gingerly stroke Castiel’s cheek. Cas tenses and braces himself. “Took a bit longer than I’d hoped, but I knew you’d come through for me, Cassy. I knew you’d let me in.

“Now that I’ve got you, I’m never going to let go. You’re mine, love; you have been from the start. Oh, you’ve had a grand ole time, haven’t you? Making me chase you about. It’s all part of the game, you know. And I didn’t mind it, I didn’t give up. Because I knew this day would come—the day when I’d make you my own.” Crowley leans forward, lips brushing chastely across Castiel’s.

“GET YOUR SLIMY HANDS OFF MY ANGEL OR I SWEAR ON ALL THAT IS HOLY I WILL CUT OFF YOUR BALLS AND FEED THEM TO WILD DOGS!” Dean shouts, accentuated by the BANG of the closet door being all but kicked open. Fist clenched, Dean hurls himself at Crowley, who seems to have been stunned into paralysis for the moment. Then there’s commotion at the front door,  as Sam, Singer, and Mills come barreling through, the latter two brandishing guns.

“Drop him, Dean,” Sheriff Mills hisses through gritted teeth. She’s pointing her gun at the writhing pile of limbs on the living room floor, while Singer blocks the front door. Dean rolls away and leaps to his feet, wrapping protective arms around Cas’s waist.

Crowley’s on his side, face screwed up in pain and fear, and he shouts, “I haven’t done a damn thing! You can’t arrest me! Leave me be!”

“Actually, we have enough textual, physical, and situational evidence to take you, and I suggest you come quietly, because unlike most cops, I _have_ used this gun before and I am not even the slightest bit afraid to use it again,” Mills explains, slowly and venomously.

“And trust me, you don’t wanna test her on that,” Singer adds gruffly. Cas is distantly aware that Becky’s bedroom door is creaking open, and the girl pokes her head out interestedly.

Mills orders: “Shut the door, honey!” And Becky disappears without a word. Somewhere under the thick quilt of anxiety coating Cas’s mind, he knows that Becky will be utterly ravenous for a play-by-play later on. So he watches carefully, awed, as Sheriff Mills cuffs Crowley and leads him out the door, with Lieutenant Singer following behind. Crowley doesn’t exactly come quietly—he’s alternately cursing and pleading to be released.

“You belong to me, Cassy!” he shouts hoarsely from down the hall. “You will always belong to me!” But Dean pulls Castiel closer and presses a string of kisses into Cas’s cheek and neck.

“You don’t belong _to_ anyone,” Dean says softly. “But I’d like you to belong _with_ me.”

“Always,” Cas replies, turning to snuggle into Dean’s chest.

 

“Okay, I have to ask,” Sam says as he traces little X’s and O’s into Gabriel’s back. “How did you know to call those special cops?”

Gabriel hums and stretches like a cat under Sam’s fingers. “Mmm, would you believe me if I said I used to be a secret agent?”

Sam snorts. “Like a spy?”

“Yeah. Sure. Like Batman.”

“Batman’s not a spy.”

“Neither am I.”

Sam sighs and kisses Gabriel’s shoulder blade. “You’re obnoxious.”

“Nnngh, call me whatever you want, just keep scratching my back.”

And that was the end of that.

 

Two months later, after Crowley is unceremoniously dumped behind bars for stalking (along with some other petty crimes that had been unearthed during the trials), Becky is helping Cas pack his belongings into boxes. She’s simultaneously excited and weepy, pleased for Cas but also sad about having to live alone. (This turns out not to be a long-standing problem, as only a day later Chuck ‘unofficially’ moves into the apartment to ‘keep an eye on things’, as he had apparently played the role of informant and coordinator in the sting operation, unbeknownst to anyone else at the time. Within a month, he ‘unofficially’ moves from the couch to Becky’s bed.)

“I’m going to miss you,” Becky sniffs as she scrawls FRAGILE across the top of a box in thick black Sharpie. Castiel passes her a tissue.

“I’ll still be working with you every day, Becks,” he says gently. Becky is prone to hysterics and dramatics, and that’s the last thing Cas wants nowadays.

She smiles faintly at the consolation. “Th-that’s true. It’s just going to be weird, you know?”

“We can do weird,” Cas replies, “Weird works for me.”

Becky laughs and swipes at her eye with the back of her hand. “I guess so. But, Cas, are you totally sure you’re ready for this? Moving in with him?”

“Yes,” he answers easily, and immediately his heart stutters a bit; he can’t help thinking about how wonderful it will be to share an apartment, a whole apartment, with Dean. Now that Sam’s spending almost all of his time at Gabriel’s elaborate villa, it’s almost like Dean and Cas will have the space to themselves entirely. Castiel is downright giddy at the prospect. His phone chimes and he checks his inbox. He doesn’t even have to look to know it’s from Dean. It reads: _on my way to pick u up… roomie_. Cas grins. “Yes. I’m more than ready


End file.
